


Glass Heart Hymn

by importantmetaphors



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: (Big) Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Eventual Smut, F/M, Found Family, Guardian angel!Bellamy, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, disguised as a place that serves food, fallen angel!bellamy, marcus owns this career-guidance center for precious delinquents (but not really delinquents), unconventional angels - no religious elements, very brief braven
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:34:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26068792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/importantmetaphors/pseuds/importantmetaphors
Summary: Modern AU. Bellamy, formerly Clarke’s guardian angel, lands on Earth and is suddenly left to deal with one of the most challenging aspects of existence: his human side.As a waiter in a beachside bar-restaurant no less.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 10
Kudos: 35
Collections: Bellarke Big Bang 2020





	Glass Heart Hymn

**Author's Note:**

> Heyyy guys, I hope you're holding up okay!! This fic, featuring a version of Bellamy I apparently have a soft spot for now, is my contribution to this year's **[Bellarke Big Bang](https://bellarkebigbang.tumblr.com/)** , and I'm so happy to be sharing it at last! None of this would have been possible without Chloe (@catastrophic-chloe) for organizing the event and cheering us all up, Hana (@useyourtelescope) for being such an observant, thoughtful and sweet beta-reader, Essie (@pawprinterfanfic) for her **[AMAZING edits](https://pawprinterfanfic.tumblr.com/post/627270254383579137/glass-heart-hymn-fanart-inspired-by-a-fic-by)** (I loved our back-and-forth and I drew so much inspiration from it!!!) and Brooke (@broashwhat) for her encouragement and for being the reason this story was born in the first place. And of course, the same goes for everyone else participating, sprint-writing, chatting and/or giving advice at the BBB discord server. THANK YOU <3
> 
> Please check out all the wonderful fics and pieces of art from the event - if you haven't, you're certainly missing out!
> 
> I've played with the characters' ages a bit: Clarke and Murphy are 20, Raven is 21 and Monty and Harper are 16 and 17 respectively. As you'll realize, this first part starts with less dialogue and more digging into Bellamy's inner world and first-time experiences, but it's been such a joy to write and I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Here's a **[dark](https://important-metaphors.tumblr.com/post/626252180866924544/glass-heart-hymnheres-a-sneak-peek-of-my)** and a **[light](https://important-metaphors.tumblr.com/post/627268749357187072/glass-heart-hymn-a-bellarke-fanfiction-written)** **photoset** to get you in the mood xx

_ ** _

_How frail the human heart must be—  
  
_ _a mirrored pool of thought. So deep_

_and tremulous an instrument_

_of glass that it can either sing,_

_or weep._

~Sylvia Plath

**

She’s six when she needs Bellamy for the first time, all chubby cheeks and scraped knees, golden hair tangled and untamed from tossing and turning on her bedsheets, pink nightgown clenched in her balled fists. 

She’s had a nightmare about her best friend, dull colors swirling and elusive shadows dancing around the corners of her mind, intangible and incomprehensible the way dreams are supposed to be. 

She knows to relax her shoulders when the bedroom door shuts behind her concerned mother, knows to allow the trembling of her chin and a small whine past her lips. Her mother’s footsteps recede down the hall and thump on the stairs.

Clarke Griffin is fearless and smart, a little bit too bright for her age. And, right now, she needs him, needs her guardian angel, needs  _ Bellamy _ . 

The everlasting beacon of hope that lightens her chest and pulls at her mouth in a gaping smile of missing teeth. 

She burrows under her blankets and fixes her gaze on the spot Bellamy’s standing at the corner of the room. It's always trained on him rather than the shadows cast by the streetlights, dim and distorted through the curtain's thin material.

He nears the foot of her bed as he does on nights like this one, sitting on the bedspread. 

The mattress doesn’t bend with his weight the way it would if he were a man with blood in the place of ichor flowing through his veins. 

Clarke follows his graceful movements with bright eyes that are now brimming with warm tears. Like she senses a presence that’s not a presence, sees sprinkled stardust gleam with every blink.

But Bellamy knows she can’t actually, possibly  _ see  _ him; not this time or any of the times to come.

In the darkness, Clarke tells him about Wells, her favorite person, her best friend. 

She tells him about the bully in her class, the kid that pushed her arm and let her coloring pencils clatter to the floor. The one who pulled at her neat braids when she kicked him in the shin in retaliation and told her matter-of-factly grown-up girls didn’t sleep with their teddy bears anymore. 

Her stuffed seal toy, Phocion, the one she chose because of her father’s love for the sea and named with a caress of Bellamy’s whisper in her ear, sits perched on top of the windowsill.

Bellamy murmurs a lullaby she can’t hear until her eyelids droop and her lips release tiny rhythmical puffs of air. Slumber pulls her under and she sinks until she’s floating again, letting the feathery touch of his song guide her to safety and envelop her like a finely-sewn veil.

She wakes in the morning with a mouthful of her hair and Phocion’s fur beneath her fingers. 

**

Whenever she needs him, Bellamy is present. It’s his assigned duty, guarding Clarke’s soul.

She calls out to him with her heart and her mind, never afraid of the turmoil of emotions brewing within her. Bellamy doesn’t  _ feel  _ in the way that humans do, but he listens when she communicates her thoughts through her deep inhales and shaky exhales, through vivid brushes of color on her canvas, paint underneath her fingernails and on the bridge of her nose.

He’s there when her family decides to move to smalltown Arkadia, California for the sake of her father’s dreams and her mother’s aspirations, and she bids Wells goodbye with a frown and wetness sticking to her fair eyelashes. 

He’s there when she makes it to the top of her class and she strikes new friendships, when she dances her way through the nebulous cloud of puberty and blossoms into a young woman like the wildflowers in the countryside. 

He’s there when she falls in love and when she has her first heartbreak, dragging furious red stripes across her latest half-finished artwork with her brush, stabbing at the canvas as the unfairness and disappointment fill her to the brim. 

He’s there when her father gets caught in a car accident and she lies boneless on her striped carpet, a puddle of sorrow and emptiness engulfed by the cocoon of Bellamy's wings.

He sings to her about peace, about faith, and about forever.

But forever is a big word, a fraudulent notion of comfort, and falls heavy on the tip of Bellamy’s tongue. Had it been possible, a residual bitter aftertaste would have lingered.

Man plans, and God laughs, isn't that what they say?

Or rather, He fumes and the universe quakes. 

Millenia of loyalty and angelic existence turn into ominous sparks and incorporeal clouds the day Bellamy’s dearest sibling Octavia sins and the injustice chokes him like man-made smoke. 

Bellamy is— _ was— _ a guardian, a protector; always meant to shield, and yet never meant to fit in this eternity of dutiful negligence. 

Never meant to turn the other cheek when Octavia earns the title of an  _ outcast _ for breaking a balance that was already tipped and fragile.

The day he is punished alongside her and yet doomed to land where Octavia will never,  _ ever _ , step foot on, is the day Bellamy feels the crisp of winter on Earth for the first time since the beginning of his days. 

He is stripped of his grace with two gashes in the place of wings across his shoulder blades.

He falls and falls and falls, with his jaw set to cut steel, naked and alone as he’s always been. He shivers from the cold and what he believes might be actual terror, much to his humiliation. 

He digs through garbage cans where he encounters a bundle of tattered clothes; jeans with holes in the knees and a dark blue T-shirt with a gap in the left armpit, a pair of shoes that scrape against his heels with every step.

A scratch to his elbow and a hiss later, something warm and wet trails down, tickles and curls around his forearm.

It’s red. He gapes.

Weightiness and hunger bring him to his knees for the first few days — or is it hours? Maybe even minutes — but he makes do, having observed the way hawks do how humans survive and thrive and decimate one another for sport for centuries and centuries. 

Even now, as he struggles with balancing his body weight on his two feet, a bizarre concept and challenging task, he is aware there is a reason for every mere fact and little occurrence.

He gets a constellation of freckles across his cheeks, nose and back; one star for every life he’s ever saved. 

He’s gifted with a certain charm — a mystique and persuasiveness no mortal could possibly possess. (It earns him the attention of a junk dealer who trades Bellamy’s clothes for real ones, and a woman in her seventies who mistakes him for her homeless acquaintance and gives him a bag of bananas.)

And he gets to choose all the rest, let the newly-born heart that beats with an unmistakable purpose give shape to the world he now wakes up in. 

So it shouldn’t come as a surprise to him when he grabs hold of his surroundings on the very day he picks a last name for himself.

He's grabbing a bite in a beachside bar-restaurant with his only five-dollar bill when a vaguely familiar-looking, middle-aged man holds the “ _ STAFF NEEDED _ ” sign up behind the glass.

_ "Bellamy Blake", _ Bellamy introduces his new, vincible self.

(Blake, like the Romantic era poet Clarke admired for his brilliance and the thrill his words and illustrations evoked in her. 

Blake, like the flutter of turning old book pages and hot summer nights, the sweet smell of perspiration and jasmine, the clinking of ice cubes in a glass of cinnamon tea and innocence and fervor.)

The owner of the restaurant, Marcus Kane, hires Bellamy Blake right away, sizing him up and claiming they are in desperate need of an extra pair of hands. The duties entail box carrying, taking orders and serving, arranging the tables during opening and closing times. 

In exchange, Bellamy is offered accommodation and a salary decent enough to clothe and feed his orphaned fifteen-year-old sister residing in Arizona with close relatives.

The first half of his first day goes swimmingly.

Bellamy is first introduced to the cashier, the youngest employee: a quiet sixteen-year-old Asian boy named Monty, with a black mop top. He speaks with his future roommates next, who also happen to be the cook and one of the waitresses: Murphy, a boy with floppy, chestnut hair, and a stare burning holes through Bellamy, and Raven, a girl with an olive complexion and her dark brown hair in a ponytail.

They are an odd group of people, chasing their own personal demons with witty banter and smiles brighter than the afternoon sun. 

In the second half of the day, Bellamy's luck runs out.

_Clarke_ _Griffin_ of all humans walks through the door and the nearly-spotless plates slip from his grasp, shattering to pieces on the floor.

Oblivious to his presence, she has a half-eaten cracker between her lips and a habitual urgency in her stride. She scurries to the back of the restaurant to hang an apron over her head when she hears it. 

The noise. Him. 

“New guy,” Raven supplies drily, as if that could ever be explanation enough.

Clarke rubs the back of her palm against her mouth and stares at him with an expression implying curiosity and something else Bellamy cannot decipher.

He half expects her voice to make an appearance in his head, almost waits to hear her murmur in silence. But his brain has the misfortune of being human now, incapable of cataloging emotions the way that it used to.

It's not until Monty hurries over to him and pushes a broom in his hands that Bellamy manages to snap out of it. He mutters a quick apology and swiftly gathers the food and porcelain chunks into the dustpan. 

A girl with straight blonde hair named Harper arrives five hours into Bellamy's test shift to relieve him from his duties, with kind, sympathetic crinkles in the corners of her chocolate-brown eyes. 

A deep breath materializes in his chest and seeks refuge at the news. The wind doesn't blow at the gust of air he releases anymore, but a shiver permeates him nonetheless.

**

It’s different. The way he sees with his own eyes rather than through Clarke’s, that is. 

His new vision is tied to wonder and bewilderment instead of a kaleidoscope of memories that haven’t been his to touch and question. All five senses are interwoven with an unwavering desire to hear and feel and taste  _ more _ .

He sits cross-legged on the ground, pebbles digging into his backside in blunt bites, and he recalls spreading the blue fleece blanket underneath him would offer comfort for an extended period of time. (Then he remembers that the blanket isn’t and has never been his. Right.)

And when he gazes across the sea, throws a pebble and watches the series of concentric ripples develop and evanesce in the water, something warm and bittersweet settles in his gut. Bellamy is torn between laying his head on the rough, rocky surface and fleeing, flying over the waves until he remembers that  _ he can’t _ . 

Strangely enough, the immensity of the ocean hits too close to home. But then again, he doesn't even  _ know _ what home is.

Nostalgia is what they call this, he believes.

The sound of skittering pebbles against shoe soles captures his attention and his head turns abruptly when Clarke stops in her tracks some feet behind him. 

Her surprise melts into an amused smile as she gives a telling nod and tosses an object his way, a blur of light green, and he almost forgets about his supposed reflexes. He closes his fist around it at the last moment possible. 

An apple. 

Clarke lays down her blue fleece blanket and mimics his posture, scooting over so as to make room for him. They listen to the waves crash against the shore for a moment. The stones are smaller where the water touches, darker, glistening underneath the rays of the setting sun. 

Anticipation builds up.

“So,” she starts, tone teasing. “‘New guy’. Do you have a name?” 

That almost coaxes an unintentional laugh out of him. The term is unfamiliar, at best. He was simply created in an unfathomable time and space and that was that.

“Bellamy,” he replies, extending his hand toward her for good measure, watching as she shakes it with interest. She sinks her teeth into her own fruit then, chewing lazily as if to break the ice. 

Bellamy tries to suppress the futile hope that she might have some bizarre kind of epiphany about him any time soon.

They are separate entities. Disconnected. Have been for the past couple of weeks, even before he landed. 

Or so he thinks. He’d have to double-check the calendar hung in the restaurant’s kitchen.

“I’m Clarke.”

"Is this the moment when you tell me I'm in trouble then, Clarke?" he asks lightly, and there is a sudden, unforeseen shift in her expression.

Her lips part slightly whilst her gaze glides from his eyes to his exposed arms, the column of his throat as he swallows, and back again to his face. It lingers for a minute longer than necessary.

Bellamy inspects the offered apple and bites into it noisily, gives her a chance to take her time. The crunching and the tangy flavor makes him think of lunch breaks in school and hectic days in the restaurant, of smoothies and warm hugs.

"Everyone makes mistakes on their first day," Clarke finally rasps. "Don't stress out about it."

“I won’t,” Bellamy promises. “Besides, I’m highly motivated to keep working here.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

Bellamy nods in return and cocks his head to the direction of the restaurant. “One look at the sign and I was pretty much sold,” he admits. “I mean— _ Poseidon _ , God of the seas. Marcus does make clever choices.” 

Clarke snorts. “I hope the rest of  _ your  _ choices are only mythology-inspired when it comes to names or you will be in trouble after all.” 

“And here I thought I was hired to shake things up a bit,” Bellamy responds, which earns him a shake of the head.

“Let’s just—" Clarke pauses, exhales. "I could help you get a hang of things first before you shake anything up, alright?” She moistens her lips and evidently makes an effort to muster a sober look. 

“Be punctual, polite, listen to the guests and you're all set."

Bellamy offers a smile, a little fond, a little crooked. His first real one.

"Got it."

“From the looks of it, you’ll fit right in,” she says. 

_ Marcus Kane has a soft spot for misfits _ , she means.

Darkness falls and the ocean roars, her cue to go back to work with a playful salute.

It's Bellamy's third sunset on the ground, but the chill of the night breeze and the cold loneliness persist.

**

"Dude,” Murphy huffs pointedly during Bellamy's break from his fourth shift. “ _ Breathe _ . Your food isn’t going anywhere.”

Bellamy, already having gorged himself on three-hours old French fries, meets Murphy’s eye with a doubtful frown. He  _ sounds _ nervous but he certainly doesn't look it.

"I swear I thought Raven had no one to rival her in inhaling leftovers," Harper is quick to add. Raven provides them with a rude gesture in response, mouth stuffed with her tuna sandwich, but he spies her laugh lines and the twinkle in her eye. 

"Well, apparently, you thought wrong," Murphy mutters under his breath.

Admittedly, Bellamy might be having some trouble with estimating how much his stomach can truly accommodate, especially in his effort to be a multitasker and a decent employee.

He learns that organizing his schedule from the beginning of the day earns him fifteen extra minutes to continue his regular musings on the farthest edge of the deck and that balancing tottering trays requires more care than maintaining his own equilibrium. He learns that his left hand can scribble words on a page as quickly and deftly as it can wipe the floor with a broom. He learns to pay attention to how his coworkers move effectively in sync, and yet blabber about everything and nothing of significance. He learns to adapt.

All at the cost of neglecting the hollow pit in his belly, the butterfly graze-turned-growl responsible for his sudden, overwhelming hunger.

"Come on, give him a break," Raven intervenes. "You can't have the newbie running off before the first week is over."

Murphy opens his mouth as if to disagree, but Harper shoots him a glare that renders him silent. Bellamy remembers how just yesterday she claimed he  _ "looked green"  _ after eating a late lunch _ ,  _ before urging him to  _ "go home already" _ . 

Heat creeps up his neck. Here’s yet another thing he has to get under control, then. Like the visible shudder that courses through him when the restaurant door is held open for too long. Or being unreasonably grumpy in the morning. 

(Though, it’s not really his fault the whistling of the teapot is so heinous a sound and the honey is so  _ sticky  _ on his fingers.)

As it turns out, John Murphy hardly seems to care about giving anyone a break.

The next evening, he drags his slippers across the kitchen tile as Bellamy is preparing his dinner and leans against the doorframe with his left hip, crossing his arms, sporting a round pair of glasses and his sleepwear.

He’s quiet for a moment, observing from his spot, but the distance between them is still small, unnerving, and beads of sweat start to collect on the nape of Bellamy’s neck. 

“You know there’s, like, at least two easier ways to cut a pepper?” When Bellamy doesn’t dignify the remark with an answer, Murphy goes on, “Seriously. I’ve only ever seen Clarke cut peppers like  this . Must be a left-handed thing.”

“It must be. Excellent statistics.”

Murphy snorts and the knife slides half an inch closer to Bellamy’s thumb. A sharp pain makes him jump and he releases a sudden exclamation as his finger bleeds. He can feel his brows furrow, the impatient puff of air fill his lungs and rise to escape, the abrupt shift in his mood make his hands shake just a little.

“I believe the word you’re looking for is  _ fuck _ ,” offers Murphy.

“What?”

“Fuck,” he repeats. “It’s a word for -”

“I know what fuck means,” Bellamy snaps as he moves to the sink so the cool tap water can wash off the blood.

“I’m just saying, you could do with blowing off some steam right now and cursing can be … liberating." 

Bellamy lifts his hand as an obvious reminder. “Do you have something for this?”

“Uh, yeah. Top right shelf in the bathroom cabinet.”

Bellamy nods and makes a beeline for the bathroom. As he finds the box containing what he recognizes to be band-aids and wraps up his thumb, it registers with him that he should probably be at least slightly put-off by Murphy’s peculiar behavior. 

But he isn’t. Instead, an unexpected fondness takes shape and nestles in his chest. 

Because Bellamy knows — he just  _ does  _ — that despite his feigned bravado, Murphy cares about his own. Sure, he can be rude, and he has an aggravating habit of sneaking under people’s skin to rile them up, but that’s only because he craves attention and self-affirmation just as much as the next person. 

In the coming days, Bellamy keeps noticing things, small details really, like how John jumps in to cut through a silence that has stretched out for too long with an intelligent line, how he pushes Clarke’s buttons to keep her on edge, and how he saves the crunchiest of shrimps especially for Monty.

And then, suddenly, the details aren’t just about Murphy. 

They’re about Raven too, who climbs aboard every single day in the way she bites into three-layered burgers and fixes cars, in the way she grabs onto opportunities before they can disappear into the void; wholeheartedly, ingeniously, fiercely.

Monty, who, at only sixteen, could move mountains with his tenacity and determination if need be, who balances Calculus and Engineering online courses on school days with working and gardening with his mother on the weekends.

And, of course, Harper. Generous, insightful, resourceful Harper, the eldest of five siblings but still young. The girl who’s experienced firsthand what it’s like to make a feast out of bread crumbs, create everything out of nearly nothing, to shoot for the sky.

Realistically, having only just met them days ago, Bellamy could imagine where or  _ who  _ in particular all these enlightening feelings emanate from. 

It’s simple, as simple as something like this could ever be: Clarke loves them so Bellamy, by extension, warms up to them, too. And before he has a chance to fully grasp the idea of it, he cares about five people instead of one.

The human heart is a funny thing, he figures. It contracts and it expands like a whole wide universe in the speed that the moon controls the tide.

**

The head, on the other hand, is a mystery. It is complex and so very fragile, aches when pushed too hard, thoughts running a mile a minute.

There comes a point when the remnants of Clarke’s scattered thoughts among his own become a nuisance where they used to come in handy, sometimes even exhausting Bellamy. It’s a mess he needs to put in order very soon, but is clueless as to how.

A solution comes in the form of a surprise — a  _ surprise gift _ to be precise. 

A young girl with her fair hair in piglets, no older than eight, strolls in with Harper when her shift is meant to start and nears him with purpose. In the kid’s hand lies a rectangle object wrapped haphazardly in blue paper, tied with beige cord.

“I’m Charlotte. Harper’s sister. This is for you,” she declares and extends the object out to him. True to her words, he catches a glimpse of his name neatly placed on the top right corner with a black marker.

He takes it with a wry smile. “It’s a pleasure, Charlotte. Can I open it now?”

Charlotte nods eagerly. 

“Alright, so how about I treat you to a lemonade first?” Bellamy pulls a chair for her to get comfortable in and, soon enough, he’s seated across from her as well, unravelling his present, fingers delicate yet hasty.

It’s a book with a handmade cover; it has a dark brown background and golden carved shapes that shine when the sun lands on the surface at just the right angle. There is a trident — like the signature symbol the Greeks believed God Poseidon to command the water with —and waves that resemble a stormy sea.

Inside, the pages are blank. A notebook, then. 

Bellamy grins,  _ impressed _ , for lack of a better word.

“This is wonderful,” he praises. “Thank you.” Charlotte blushes. “Did you make this by yourself?”

“Mom makes these in her free time. She taught me, and Harper helped a lot, too,” Charlotte admits.

“It’s a welcome gift!” Harper chimes in, and warmth spreads inside Bellamy. 

Charlotte slurps up the last few drops of lemonade from her glass until she noisily sucks air.

He opens the notebook in the quiet of his room that night, his mood considerably elevated compared to the previous evening. Before he knows it, the first page is filled with four simple sentences, the basics — what would make matters worse should his mind turn blank.

_ Current shift starts at 8.30 and ends at 14.30. _

_ Table of priority set by the blue anchor next to the window: vase with peonies, menu with daily specials, extra teaspoon of sugar for Mrs. Powell.  _

_ Tomato-simmered squid cooked without garlic and served with cabbage salad on the side for Mr. Jenkins. (Tuesdays and Thursdays) _

_ Never forget to leave the storeroom key with Clarke. _

He fleetingly wonders what Octavia would have thought about him being on the receiving end of something, much like she had craved to be, much like she was after all. He wonders if she ever regretted taking instead of only giving, if she would persuade Bellamy against it now. 

But he decides he doesn’t  _ want  _ to think about Octavia tonight, about how far from reach she must be, about how impossible coming to her aid is. 

So he keeps writing. 

By the time he’s gotten to recalling which mug he absolutely must not break according to Raven, he starts dozing off. 

He thinks that he’s gotten the hang of the situation when March rolls in about half a week later but spring doesn’t. 

From Monty’s disappointment, Murphy’s occasional whining, and Clarke’s business notes for exploiting any time lost, Bellamy gathers temperatures have dropped lower than they’d anticipated during this time of the year. And, subsequently, that season change seems to be important for  _ Poseidon _ .

Indeed, the wind is cold and biting, fogging up the window glass with salt every night, sticky and hard to scrub the next day. The usual morning crowd, consisting of three to four tables more or less, thins out as well. 

Marcus gives Bellamy two consecutive days off, and he gapes when he feels his boss’ gentle clap on his back, and gets advice to take some much-needed rest. 

The thing is, Bellamy would appreciate said rest if he had the slightest idea about what his free time could entail.

With Raven and Murphy both gone from day one, the apartment feels too empty and soulless; the common room too silent, the kitchen floor too clean, the shadows on the walls closing in as the clouds swarm.

Finally, he opts for a run. 

He hurriedly slips into the only pair of athletic pants he owns and sprints to his favorite supermarket, jogs around the block with the swaying palm trees, heaves a deep breath from the top of a steep hill. The ocean stretches out before him, infinite, restless, mocking.

On the way back, his lungs and his calves start to burn. He slows down only when the engine of a decelerating car hums to his left and a sudden honk makes his exhale temporarily lodge in his throat.

“Need a ride, stranger?” Clarke asks and he can’t help but chuckle, relish in the tiny smirk adorning her lips as she gestures for him to hop in. 

“It’s my day off, but I’m going for a coffee with Raven. Morning kick-off routine. Wanna join?”

“Sure.” 

He sits on the passenger seat and pulls the door shut. Clarke drives.

Her cheeks are flushed, hair in a bun falling apart, with damp, stray tufts plastered on the side of her head. She’s wearing her sports clothes; tights and a bright blue tank top that brings out her eyes. A sense of unexplainable joy rushes through him as he takes in the sight of her.

“I didn’t know you ran, too,” she says conversationally, her eyes finding his briefly. “I mean, I figured there was  _ some  _ kind of working out involved. But.” She averts her gaze, gently spins the wheel to make a turn. 

Bellamy opens his mouth and closes it, indecisive. “Running’s fine,” is what he settles for. 

Clarke makes a sound in the back of her throat, between a huff and a snort of amusement.

She parks behind the restaurant and they make their way inside through the backdoor, each murmuring a “ _ morning” _ at Murphy who’s lazily stirring caramelized onions in a pan. The place is empty save for their frequent guests, a group of old ladies occupying the table of priority, sipping on their coffee. Among them is Vera Kane, Marcus’ mother, who eagerly scrambles to her feet as soon as she spots them to announce she’ll fix them each a drink, too.

Clarke slouches down on a table in a quiet corner and types something on her phone. 

“Raven’s running late. She might not make it today,” she announces, lifting her gaze to gauge his reaction.

Bellamy shrugs. “It’s alright.” 

He pushes his mind for more but comes up short. All this time and he hasn’t spotted a chance to really approach her, let alone listen to her. How does he even begin to explain that he’s missed her voice, missed her laugh, missed  _ her _ ? 

Then, of course, he was never  _ supposed _ to miss her in the first place. It’s all an aftereffect of the unsightly scars marring his shoulder blades, of the unfortunate fall he would repeat again and again if the opportunity presented itself to him. 

Vera brings them their orange juice before she leaves them to it, and they make small talk, about the weather and the client increase that was supposed to come, about how easy it was for Bellamy to get accustomed to his new apartment, his roommates, and the policy of the workplace. 

“How’s your sister doing? Octavia, was it?”

Bellamy had braced himself for every version of that question, planned out the conversation in painstaking detail. Just in case. 

It’s not the first nor the last time the name of his supposed blood sister will be employed as a means to an end, so he ignores the knot in his stomach and doesn't miss another beat.

“Octavia, yes. She lives with our aunt until she can finish school. We keep in touch, but that’s not—uhm.”

“Not good enough,” Clarke mumbles, but Bellamy hears her all the same, nodding. There are creases on her forehead and in-between her eyebrows, and he has this indescribable, all too consuming urge to touch them, smooth them out with his thumb.

The head is a mystery and Clarke’s head the biggest one yet.

He notices she’s distracted, wordlessly observing Mrs. Powell who was peering at them just some moments ago.

“What?”

The ghost of a smile makes an appearance. “I’m just wondering if there’s someone out there that you can’t charm.” Bellamy’s heart flops at her words. “You’re good with people, no matter the age or how strange the demands. When you want to, that is.” 

“I wouldn’t bet on it.”

She clasps her hands together and leans forward, lowering the tone of her voice as if letting him in on a secret. 

“You’re good with Murphy. He  _ likes  _ you. That’s reason enough for placing a bet.”

“He sure has a funny way of showing it,” Bellamy counters. 

“True but not unheard of,” Clarke insists. “Anyway, that was a compliment. Take it or leave it.”

Chair legs screech on the floor, signaling the ladies’ departure, prompting Bellamy’s hair to stand on end involuntarily. He would have locked his jaw, gritted his teeth together, if it weren’t for the discreet bite on Clarke’s bottom lip, the absent-minded, circular motion her finger wills her straw to make, the way her shoulders are positioned.

He might not be in her head right now, but he can still read her like a sky that’s about to rain.

She’s attracted to him one way or another, he realizes, whether it be plainly physical or a character trait that made her decide she’s clicked with him as well.

And it stuns him because that was never an option before. Because, before, he wasn’t  _ seen  _ in return. There was no electric buzz creeping under his skin at a single glance, vivid and so very real.

“Where’s Raven?” Murphy wonders suddenly, boisterous. He takes in the way they’re seated, fingers close on the table, ready to touch with just a stretch of the hands. 

“She’ll be here any minute now,” Clarke replies. “I can take over for a bit, if you want.”

“Nah, keep doing — whatever it is that you’re doing.” 

As if on cue, Raven storms in with a quick apology, bringing a breeze with her, treading behind Murphy. In the kitchen, the all too familiar, good-spirited bickering ensues.

“I should go,” Clarke announces when Bellamy volunteers to transfer their glasses inside. She hesitates for two long seconds before she seemingly makes up her mind and addresses him again. “There’s a beach about two miles from here. It’s good for running. If you’d like to come with tomorrow, I’m always happy to have company.”

“Tomorrow is good. 7.30?”

“7.30. I’ll pick you up.”

The next morning is just as windy as the one before. They meet in the parking lot, exchanging gruff greetings and unintended brushes of fingers over the console. Clarke tampers with the car radio for about half the ride, trying to get rid of the static.

The coast is large, covered in golden fine sand that keeps slipping into Bellamy's sneakers. There are wrinkles from the sun on his face and his lungs protest a little too soon, but he pushes on.

They run to where the beach ends, pausing by a bundle of rocks to take a breather. 

“Two-minute rest?” Clarke suggests, panting. Bellamy bobs his head curtly in return, so she presses a button on her watch that gives off a small ‘beep’. A moment passes.

“Do you surf?”

“Surf?” he parrots, equally dazed by the sun and her question. He coughs a little. “No.”

It’s not about him anyway, he thinks as he watches Clarke gaze longingly at a pair paddling slowly in shallow waters. His eyes flit to the other side of the shore and land on another surfer who’s already taming a swelling wave.

“Dad was a surfer. It was one of the things he looked forward to the most before we moved here.” She heaves a sigh. 

“He’d started teaching me at some point, but I had a minor accident that scared me off the sea for weeks. Between that, dance classes and school, I lost touch eventually. I’d thought about it — starting again.”

Bellamy mulls this over. “Did you enjoy it?”

“I did. Not as much as other activities, though I loved Dad’s enthusiasm. We would stay out in the water all morning on the weekends, practice. Work up an appetite. Mom prepared meals for us when it wasn’t her shift in the hospital, so we wouldn’t raid the fridge.”

He smiles, then turns solemn. “And things are different now?”

“I’ve been staying with my mother ever since I dropped out of pre-med. Ten months now. Dad passed away about two and a half years ago.”

Two and a half years of internalized anger and confusion, dulled to fit into her fast-paced reality. Two and a half years of songless holidays and quiet Sunday mornings in the Griffins' patio, of unfinished dinners and died-out conversation, of vacant eyes staring right back.

An invisible jab in Bellamy's gut makes the world around him slow down.

“I’m sorry,” he tells her sincerely and Clarke shrugs, grim. “You could still rent a board and give it another try. See if it works for you.”

She releases another breath, parting her lips and faltering, as though she has a bigger burden to unleash. She opts for pointing to her watch instead, tapping the plastic with her index finger. 

“Time?” Bellamy asks, greedily filling his chest with air in preparation. 

“Time.” 

Her watch beeps again.

In the restaurant, they gulp down freshly-squeezed orange juice in companionable silence until Raven arrives to deliver Murphy’s fix in banter and the day continues in the pattern that makes  _ Poseidon  _ lively.

Clarke prods him for trivial information, and she shares just as much, sheds new light on Bellamy’s previous perception about her.

She beams at him before it’s time for her to go, nodding suggestively towards the old ladies sitting by the window. 

“Fun club’s waiting for you.”

Mrs. Kane gushes about how well her tomatoes are growing, and Mrs. Powell updates them about her ten-year-old grandson’s newest knowledge conquests — he’s enamored by his father’s Astronomy books, apparently devouring them bit by bit.

Bellamy ends up telling them about the asterism of Orion’s Belt, its whereabouts and its origin, about how Orion was only one of the many sons Poseidon fathered — heroes, demigods and mythical creatures alike. 

That, in turn, sparks an enthusiastic conversation about poetic symbolism and how unexceptionally, impossibly _gifted_ all of Marcus’ employees are. It results in not only one but two dramatic eye-rolls from Raven. 

“You get two days off in a row — one of them being a Friday, mind you —and that’s what you choose to do with them," she grumbles in disbelief. 

"At least someone's made us out to be fucking heroes," Murphy snickers.

Bellamy nearly rolls his eyes, too, because — well, that's just not what he implied. It's not his fault myths are built to be interpreted the way they are.

Bellamy lowers his tone to match theirs.

"Technically that's not my entire day," he tells Raven. "And it's not even half bad."

“Yeah, right,” Murphy snarks. “Say that again in two months, when the place is packed, and you have to listen to every stupid complaint by insufferable, self-declared experts. Or high maintenance dickheads. I can't wait to see what you come up with then."

"You through?" Raven deadpans. She turns to Bellamy and juts her thumb out in Murphy's general direction. "And this, right here, is why we don't let Murphy come out of the kitchen when it's tourist season."

"You have tourists here? How busy does it get? I mean, it's manageable, isn't it?"

Something in Bellamy's expression must have given off the impression he's actually anxious about this, because next thing he knows Raven's brows are drawn together, eyes scanning him from head to toe. 

"I guess time will tell," she muses.

"Harsh," Murphy comments, and she glowers at him before he retreats.

Bellamy shakes his head at their antics, addressing Raven. "I was thinking — " 

"Nope." 

She grins, baring teeth, like the cat that got the canary. 

"Don't give me that look. You have your day off and I don't, hence I give the orders. Simple as that. I'm kicking you out until further notice."

In the end, Bellamy begrudgingly agrees. Just as he's about to head out, Murphy pokes his head from the kitchen.

"Hey, old man! Tonight is trivia night." 

A hint of confusion crosses Bellamy's features, but he soon catches on. He remembers Clarke loving trivia nights, qualms thrown out the window as her unequivocally competitive streak emerged with full force, time and time again.

"Be here at nine," Murphy adds finally. "Or don't."

By ten past nine, the place has already been deserted by the last clients, the group has gathered, and Harper takes it upon herself to offer the simplest explanation of the primary rules. 

"Each question has only one correct answer. No need for playing philosopher."

"No cell phones unless absolutely necessary. Which doesn't apply to you, exactly — "

"Old man," Murphy pipes in.

" _ Do not _ pity Murphy and do not be fooled by his unnecessary theatrics. Do not sit very close to Clarke, trust me. Do not take what Raven says in the middle of a game to heart.  _ Do  _ let the best team win!"

Three rounds, an unnecessary amount of loud protests, shouting and cursing later, they are worn out by hoarse throats and pleasant exasperation. 

Clarke, with her cheeks reddened, flush coloring her neck and her collarbones, meets Bellamy’s eyes and lets her mouth curl sideways in an engrossing smile. He would attribute that to sheer appreciation of him joining the right side in the game — her side — but he’s content with allowing the delight to linger for a little longer.

"What even  _ is he _ ," Murphy complains, throwing an accusatory glance Bellamy’s way. 

"He," Harper declares, looping her arm through Bellamy's, shoulder leaning against his, "is on my team starting next time. Suck it up."

"Let me remind you that while this guy is casually sitting there, kicking your asses six ways from Sunday, Monty’s record is not a record anymore. There must be some rule taking points off winners of so many consecutive questions," he says, then randomly adds, “And he doesn’t have a cell phone! Who  _ doesn’t  _ have a cell phone.”

"Thanks for the recapitulation,” Monty says in a monotone voice, but his face lights up as a new suggestion springs up.

“Music?” 

They all perk up as Clarke goes to fetch the guitar reserved mainly for summer events held in  _ Poseidon _ .

She scratches at the instrument gently when she sits with her feet perched on a second chair, claiming she’s warming up after a long break. Soon after finding a steady rhythm, she hums, and Raven claps with a noise of contentment, humming alongside her. Harper trades seats with Murphy to settle next to Monty, giving him a hearty smack on the cheek. Monty’s arm snakes across her shoulders, hugging her close.

On Saturday, Monty brings two of his classmates with him, Jasper and Maya, who are armed with snacks and a speaker to blast Raven’s newest playlists from.

Jasper dances to everything regardless of the beat, dragging Maya with him and soon Raven and Harper leap to their feet, too.

"Parties are more fun in the summer," Harper promises after, with a soft nudge in Bellamy's side. "And not just in here."

“ _ Especially _ not in here,” Murphy interjects. 

Clarke seconds the statement. "There are actual people in attendance, too.”

"I'll believe it when I see it," Bellamy bites back with mirth in his voice.

Day after day, the restaurant fills with deliciously savory aromas and the hollow sounds of nature: of the wind’s whistle and the ocean’s rage, of the seagulls’ incessant squawking. 

And night after night, the air vibrates with laughter and heated disagreements, inundated by a contagious, compelling kind of energy. 

It always starts with a game or two, the mellifluous strumming of Clarke's guitar strings, a cup of something sour or tasteless to dehydrate their lips and set their insides ablaze. Some of their gatherings are rowdy whereas others end up in mellow conversation. 

Nevertheless, their aftermath fills Bellamy with content in a way he couldn’t have fathomed before, and the tension is gradually chased away from his shoulders. 

Unconventional as it may be, his coworkers — friends — make up a family of their own, small and imperfect, each one of them contributing what they’ve been deprived of the most.

A staggering thought occurs to him more often than he's eager to admit.

He could get used to this. 

He could get used to  _ them _ . 

**

**tbc.**

**Author's Note:**

> Answers will come in the next chapters, though, your opinion about this part and/or any theories you might have are always exciting and very welcome ;)
> 
> You can also find me @important-metaphors on tumblr!


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